


Fake Plastic Trees

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, Missing Scene, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of scenes after Sherlock's collapse at Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fake Plastic Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> Song prompt from ResidentBunburyist:
> 
> She looks like the real thing  
> She tastes like the real thing  
> My fake plastic love  
> But I can't help the feeling  
> I could blow through the ceiling  
> If I just turn and run
> 
> It wears me out, it wears me out  
> It wears me out, it wears me out
> 
> If I could be who you wanted  
> If I could be who you wanted all the time  
> \- Radiohead, Fake Plastic Trees

John followed the emergency responders down the stairs, watching them carry Sherlock on the stretcher. Sherlock’s breath came out in heavy wheezing gasps, evolving into groans with every step.

“Careful,” John said. “Careful.”

He didn’t notice Mary behind him until they were on the street and the stretcher was being loaded into the ambulance.

“We can follow in the car,” she said. “They’ll likely head for Princess Grace, or-”

“No!” John shouted. He turned to face her, his finger extended to her, his whole arm shaking.

“You stay away,” he said, low and hoarse, and Mary flinched. “You stay away from me, you stay away from him, and I will speak to you when I am ready, and not one moment sooner.”

He climbed into the back of the ambulance, sitting as close as he could to Sherlock without interfering with the medics’ work. He did not look at her. She saw him lift his chin up high as the doors slammed shut. The siren wailed as the ambulance roared down Baker Street.

Mary turned to look at Mrs. Hudson, who was still standing on the stoop of 221B. Mrs. Hudson’s face was blank, devoid of any emotion or pity. She turned and entered the building, and Mary heard the soft click of the lock.

+

“Can’t you give him anything?” John snapped at the medic.

“No… no…” Sherlock murmured, his voice tinny and muffled by the oxygen mask.

John closed his eyes. “He’s a former addict,” he said.

“I’ve got morphine and oxycodone here,” said the medic. “There’s more options at the hospital, and we can get him an addictionologist for the longer term pain management. But we have to manage his pain now or he’ll go into shock.”

“No. Please, John,” Sherlock said. His voice was indistinct through the mask, but his eyes were fixed on John.

John closed his eyes as though he were the one in pain. He gently picked up Sherlock’s hand. “Squeeze my hand as hard as you can… as hard as you need to.”

“Bullet to… bite,” Sherlock said, and his eyes slid shut.

+

Mary drove home. The silence in the car began to drive into her ears, and she turned on the radio.

_Little boxes made of ticky tacky_

_And they all look just the same…_

She turned the radio off again.

There was a parking spot in front of the house. Mary pulled into it, turned off the car. Sat.

+

There were at least five Johns in the room, all talking at once.

_“Shut up, Sherlock.”_

_“I, John Hamish Watson, take you…”_

_“You’re an idiot.”_

_“How bad is the internal bleeding?”_

_“She wasn’t supposed to be like that.”_

_“Here, you can use mine.”_

_“You’re my best friend. Of course you are.”_

_“No, I’m not… you’ll have to get his brother’s permission.”_

_“Take him. Take him.”_

_“Stop it now!”_

_“Sherlock?”_

There were too many of them, and he couldn’t tell which one was the real John. He let all the voices close over his head like water.

+

Sherlock’s eyelids were heavy, so heavy, but he pushed and pulled and strained against them until he could see light.

“Sherlock?” said a voice. Tenor; hoarse; exhausted. John?

“John?”

“Yeah, it’s me, you daft bugger.” Relief crept around the edges of his voice. “I’m right here.”

Sherlock blinked, willing his eyesight to clear. John was leaning over the bed, close. Hair greasy, chin covered in stubble, three to four days worth. Frown lines deeper than usual.

“Day…?”

“It’s the 14th. You’ve been out for five days.”

“Hm. Centurion.”

John’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Guard… two thousand years. Silly show.”

John’s hand rested heavy and cool on Sherlock’s forehead. “Rest. You’re on some serious pain killers. You’ll make more sense later… or as much sense as you usually make.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and dreamt of John, made of plastic, his hand molded into the shape of a gun.

Two hours later, John finally realized what Sherlock had been talking about, and laughed for the first time in a week.

+

Mary went for her ultrasound alone.

“Do you want to know the sex of the baby?” the technician said as she spread the cold jelly over Mary’s stomach. “We can probably figure that out today.”

“Sure,” Mary smiled. She had perfected this smile, the expectant mother smile, the carefree, hopeful one.

The technician ran the transducer over her belly. Mary watched her face gradually pucker into a frown.

Mary went cold. “Anything wrong?” she said, forcing a casual tone.

The technician’s face cleared. “I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Everything looks fine, it’s just the baby’s being coy. I can’t discern the sex.”

Mary let her head rest back against the crackling paper on the cot. “Everybody’s got to have a secret,” she muttered.

+

When Sherlock was released from hospital, the doctor reviewed his recovery regimen, and made him sign a piece of paper agreeing to it. Sherlock signed, but fast and uncaringly, so his signature looked nothing like his own.

As he was wheeled out of the hospital, he clutched a plastic bag filled with his drugs – painkillers, antibiotics, gauzes, and a myriad of other items. John helped him into the cab, then ran around to the other side and got in.

“Baker Street,” John told the cabbie.

Sherlock threw his bag of pill bottles to John. John caught it and clutched it on his own lap.

+

The first night back at Baker Street, Sherlock woke at 3:26am. He carefully rolled to his side, then slowly sat up on the edge of the bed. After a long moment, he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled out the door and to the hallway.

The hall light turned on with a bang. John stood in the hallway, barefoot and in his pyjamas, his hand on the switch, a thunderous look on his face.

“Where do you think you’re going, arsehole?” John snarled.

Sherlock blinked at him, and waited for his heart rate to go back down.

“I want a drink of water,” he said.

John deflated, the tension leaving his body all at once. “Christ,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I’m – I’m sorry – I-”

“Of course, now I need the loo first.”

John peeked up at Sherlock to see his half smile, then snorted. “Yeah,” he said. “I – yeah. You go, I’ll bring you the water.”

Sherlock went to the toilet, then returned to his room. John was waiting for him with a glass of water.

“Do you need a painkiller?”

“Just – paracetamol.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock said, tired already.

Sherlock drank, and lay back down in bed. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said into the pillows.

“I’m sorry too.”

John turned out the light.

“I won’t sneak out again, John. I promise.”

John nodded, once, and left the room.

+

Mary watched her belly swell and round. She remembered an assignment she had, years and years ago, where she wore a fake pregnancy belly to get through a security checkpoint in Prague. She had hated every moment of it. The weight of the fake belly threw off her balance, made her feel clumsy and unwieldy. She was intrigued by how differently people treated her, though.

One day she noticed brown markings across her belly, like paint, or tattoos.

Her navel flattened out and became smooth, just a tiny indentation in the hill of her body. She hadn’t realized she had a mole inside her navel, but now she could see it, on display.

She felt the baby move and stretch inside her. One day she felt tiny, regular eruptions inside. She figured out at last that the baby had the hiccoughs.

+

John was changing Sherlock’s dressing when his mobile trilled with a text alert. John didn’t react or hesitate, but continued carefully taping the fresh gauze in place on Sherlock’s chest.

When John left the room to throw out the soiled bandages and wash his hands, Sherlock looked at the text.

_When are we going to talk?_

Sherlock replaced the mobile on the bedside table, careful to put it back in exactly the same angle it was at before he had touched it.

+

Sherlock padded down the hallway, his feet bare, his fingertips tracing along the wall, looking for the entrance to the kitchen in the dark.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice came from the lounge, muffled with sleep.

“Yes.”

“Water?”

“Yes.”

He heard John sit up on the sofa, the blankets fall to the floor.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you sleeping on the sofa, and not in your room?”

John was silent, and Sherlock fought to outline his profile in the darkness.

“Doesn’t feel like my room, not any more.”

“It is, though,” Sherlock said. “Always will be. No matter what.”

Sherlock heard the tiny click of John’s mouth smiling.

+

John and Sherlock were sitting in the lounge, reading. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Sherlock was reading a forensic journal on blood spatter patterns. John was reading a murder mystery.

John stretched, looked at his watch, and put down his book. “Want some tea?” he said.

“I’ll make it,” Sherlock said, pushing up and leaning hard on the armrests of his chair.

“Take it easy, Sherlock,” John said, jumping to his feet. “I’ll do it.”

“I’ll do it.”

“It’s no trouble, I’ll do it,” John said as Sherlock brushed past him.

“I said, I’ll do it,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock…” John said, a scolding tone entering his voice.

“You make terrible tea, John!” Sherlock snapped.

John stood in the lounge, his mouth a little open.

“Tea’s not meant to be made straight in the mug, you know. Tea’s meant to be made in a proper teapot, with loose leaves, and water _at_ the boil, not just _before_ it boils. Not by popping a couple of bags into a mug and pouring water over them! And you _do not_ mash the bags with a spoon! It’s not proper tea, it’s not…”

Sherlock stuttered to a stop, staring at John.

“Not _real_ tea,” John said calmly.

Silence wrapped around them, with only the creaking of the house to fill the space.

“What are you going to do, John?” Sherlock said softly.

John shrugged, his arms raising slightly and then collapsing against his sides. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, stopped, started again. “What about the baby?” he said.

John looked at Sherlock, and said simply, “I don’t really like kids, Sherlock.”

+

Mary went to buy a crib. She wandered around the store, staring at all the different makes and models. She wondered if people would attach her choice to her parenting style. What kind of a mother would pick oak over birch? Pine over cherrywood? Paint or stain?

She saw a couple, the woman hugely pregnant, with an older woman. The man was arguing with the older woman.

“Mama, I know you offered the old crib, but we can’t use it! It’s fifty years old!”

“It’s solid, it won’t fall apart, Jerry.”

“No, that’s not why, Mama. There’s regulations now, safety regulations. The plastic parts are all worn out. The bars are too far apart. The baby could get his head stuck.”

The pregnant woman stood apart, didn’t speak or add to the discussion. She stroked her hands over her belly, stayed quiet and apart from the argument.

“It’s not safe for the baby, Mama.”

Mary left the store.

+

Sherlock poured the tea, and sat down with a sigh of relief he couldn’t hide.

“Thank you,” John said quietly.

They drank their tea in silence. John put the teacup back into its saucer, nudging it with his finger until it was perfectly centred.

“All right,” he said. “What do you know?”

Sherlock did not require clarification. “Just what I said before. Not much more than that.”

John nodded, and bit at his lips. “Mycroft?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Yes. I suspect so. I could ask.”

John poured himself more tea. “Not yet, though. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Sherlock stared into the fire. He did not turn to John as he said, “What about the data stick?”

“Later.”

“Okay.”

+

Mary went to a Boots store and filled her basket with plastic bottles, nappies, teething rings. She had a feeling she needed something else from the store, but couldn’t remember what. She had made a list in her head, but forgot it as soon as she entered the store.

She walked up and down the aisles, hoping that she would see what she needed, trigger her memory. She found herself staring at the hair dye boxes. Hundreds of boxes, each with a twist of fake hair, hundreds of shades.

She ran her finger along the loops of hair, stopping at a chestnut brown one. It was very close to her natural hair colour. She could dye her hair, use one of her old fake passports, the Russian one perhaps, and slip away. She wondered if she let the blonde dye fade away, if her hair would come in its natural tone, or gray.

She hadn’t seen or spoken to John in three months. They had been apart longer than they had been married.

The older woman at the cash rang through her purchases, but hesitated at the hair dye. She looked down at Mary’s swollen belly.

“Dearie, you mustn’t use hair dye when you’re pregnant you know,” she said.

“I know that!” Mary snapped. “My husband is a doctor.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. Her hands clenched into a fist, hard enough that her fingernails drew blood.

“It’s just not good for the baby, dear.”

“Mind your own business,” Mary shouted, and walked out of the store, leaving the nappies and plastic bottles behind.

+

Sherlock woke in the night to the sound of a laptop clicking shut. He listened, eyes straining in the dark as though it would help him hear better.

He heard several deep, controlled breaths. He heard John pacing the lounge, back and forth, back and forth. Then he heard nothing for a time. Then he heard John walk down the hallway.

A soft tap, the creak of the door opening. “Sherlock?” John whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock said immediately.

John stood in the doorway, his lungs filling with oxygen, pushing old air out.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said.

Sherlock sat up. “I don’t either,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” John said with a gust of exhaled air. “Yeah. Okay.” He paused, hesitating, unsure. “Can I come in?”

Sherlock smiled small into the dark and moved aside to make room.

 

 

_End_


End file.
